


vein of gold

by gunk



Category: Gladiator (2000)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Porn, Gender Roles, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Porn With Plot, Resolved Sexual Tension, co-ruler AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-03-29 10:23:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19017985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gunk/pseuds/gunk
Summary: Commodus has never been one for policy, but even he knows that a war is not finished on the battlefield- it's finished in the mounds of red tape that come afterwards.





	vein of gold

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Campaign](https://archiveofourown.org/works/638759) by [astolat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astolat/pseuds/astolat). 



It had only been that once, but it had played out in both of their minds a thousand times since.

Commodus would have liked to have been suaver- smoother, more proactive, anything besides how he had actually handled himself. He had watched with trembling hands as Maximus lifted himself out of the bath, his confidence fading as Maximus had stretched those perfect tanned muscles. Commodus had actually _stammered_ when Maximus turned to face him, eyes going wide as if he’d merely imagined the events preceding. Commodus had wanted to pull himself together, to make some intelligent quip that would turn the entire situation around; he had wanted more even beyond that, going further into fantasy, but he had somehow managed to reign in his thoughts.

Now, though, he wasn’t so lucky. Countless possibilities played out in his mind: of him thrusting himself onto Maximus before the general could even stand, of him taking charge, of him being the man. In fact, it had been a baleful kind of androgyny that surrounded Commodus that day, following him even as they made their way to the bed.

The embarrassment, of course, hadn’t stopped there. Over Maximus, his hands still shaking, Commodus had whispered half-formed prayers to the gods for guidance, and he had kept going even hearing Maximus’s sigh. It came as second nature to him- both, he supposed, the urge to pray, and to make a fool out of himself. Commodus had dug his nails into the nape of Maximus’s neck, determined to wipe the grimace off of his conquest’s face, but he had just as quickly found himself making the same expression. His hands on Maximus’s neck had felt _familiar_ , too familiar, and it dredged up fantasies that he hadn’t considered since before his father’s death.

Nails were replaced with a flurry of lips and tongue and teeth as Commodus had staked his claim. He had struck hard enough with his nails to draw blood, but even then, his mouth was a fair rival; he pulled bruises from the depths of Maximus’s tawny skin, brilliant blooms springing up nearly as soon as his mouth had left his flesh. Urged on by an uncharacteristic moan from beneath him, he wrapped his hands around Maximus’s collarbones, not allowing the general any space to mock him when Commodus again sang praises to Jupiter.

Even then, even as he was still making debauched noises against his co-emperor’s neck, Commodus had wondered if Jupiter was quite the right choice for the moment. Perhaps Mars might have been more fitting? This was a _conquest_ , after all, even if it had been waged with flesh rather than with steel. Commodus had thought of a more feminine benefactor for their little tryst- Bellona, perhaps, a personification as much as a patron- but all thoughts on the manner of gods had faded with another moan. No, Commodus had decided in that split second, he didn’t want **_any_ ** god to bear witness to the events transpiring there.

The things that he would do, the things that he would _allow to be done_ were between himself and Maximus- even if the man was barely awake to play along.

Commodus had pressed on, practically shoving himself off of Maximus’s neck. He had felt the impressions of scars there against his comparatively supple palms, the fibrous tissue flexing hard against him but still _not hard enough_. It had been- it was still- infuriating. All of the blows that Commodus launched at him, Maximus gladly accepted- and he did not dare to toss even a single one back. He had bitten his lip to regain some sense of composure, and to remind himself of just what position he had put them both into: Maximus, even as an intelligent and capable ruler, was Commodus’s subordinate. Subordinates did not challenge their superiors.

Commodus had spent the better part of two years pulling every string imaginable to ensure that he was Maximus’s master- and he couldn’t have hated the result much more.

“Give yourself to me.”

Commodus had whimpered it. It had been more than just those two years if it had been a lifetime. From the moment that he had first seen Maximus, hardly older than him at all and yet already so unknowably, incomparably mature, Commodus had been waging war in his own childish way. This, still, was childish of him: to bleat the words that he wanted to hear into his already-surrendered conquest’s ear.

And so, once again, Commodus had attended a triumph that he did not feel like he deserved. He had basked in the fruits of Maximus’s labors, stealing his glories while acting like this little one sided cat-and-mouse game was anything approximating war. Commodus had conquered, he had claimed, he had lain waste to an enemy out of some old patriarchal duty that neither he nor Maximus nor any of them could truly explain. He had **_won_** , but it had been Maximus’s hard work that had gotten him there.

Commodus had screamed in victory as loud as his lungs could carry him, even as his voice had shaken, even as he had known that he was sounding off more for that sense of duty than for himself. To call them a tangle of limbs in the aftermath would have been more than a lie, as they both remained rigid until Commodus abruptly stood. The afterglow was dimmer than Commodus could remember it ever being before, and Maximus took longer to recover than he seemed comfortable with; it wasn’t unsatisfactory, so to speak, but it wasn’t anything to write home about.

But he had won, and that was what mattered. It was always what mattered.

Maximus taking longer to recover was surely part of that same ‘old duty’ as before. Commodus was the man, of course, and as such he had a responsibility to get himself up and dressed before the ‘woman’ could reorient himself. Commodus’s stomach had lurched as he’d slipped back on his tunic, his mental choice of pronouns throwing him for a loop even in the context of what he had just done- maybe, perhaps, _because_ of that context. He imagined himself in that role, not-quite-sprawled on the bed, hands gripping sheets as Maximus cleaned himself up behind him.

“And you’re not _finished_ , are you?”

There was something in his voice- something uncharacteristically cutting, something vulgar- that Commodus had struggled to put a name to. It was, he now realized, _rebellion_. Commodus had scoffed, stretching, while his heart had fluttered to imagine what more Maximus could speak in that same insubordinate tone. _What would it take to get him to act out_ , he had wondered?

“I am nothing else if not a man of principle,” Some words went unspoken: _dark principle, yes, but principle nonetheless_. Commodus had just barely kept himself from stammering as he had spoken, and he had still come off as too breathy for his comfort. “Whenever you have decided to _participate_ once again.”

The bite that he had tried to put into his own words felt pathetic, even before the renewed eye contact with Maximus could make him tremble. The Spaniard’s rippling muscle as he sat up, his scars twisting along with the rest of his olive flesh, his deep, dark eyes glistening in the soon-to-be-setting sun- Commodus had to remind himself to breathe. He opened and shut his mouth, swallowing thickly, and tried to refocus on the task at hand.

Somewhat sobering ( _thank the gods,_  Commodus had thought) was the expression on Maximus’s face, as Commodus had slowly registered it. Maximus looked absolutely exhausted, tired beyond what a single night’s sleep could fix. Humiliating thoughts danced on the edge of Commodus’s mind- _would he sleep better if he joined me in my bed?_ \- but he had merely forced himself to apply some rationale. Maximus was an ascetic by nature, a humble countryman before all else; even in this, one of the most luxurious abodes in all of Rome, he kept his quarters sparse. It was perfectly normal, Commodus thought, for him to imagine falling asleep in Maximus’s arms, head cradled by those broad and callused hands- no, it wasn’t normal, it was _noble._ Commodus could have been so much crueler, and yet, he had earnestly and truly found himself dwelling on his co-ruler's comfort.

More troublesome thoughts had followed Commodus down, onto his knees. Could that perennially gruff tone turn mellow for him, like in the fantasies that Commodus still would not admit to having? Was he capable of it, he wondered? Could he _become_ capable of it, if it was for Commodus?

As he had licked his lips, hands braced on Maximus’s rough-hewn thighs, Commodus still had not been able to properly banish the thoughts. He had listened to Maximus’s primal grunting, the uncharacteristic moans from before all but a legend, and he had imagined how his own pleasure might have sounded at Maximus’s mercy like this. Commodus gagged and choked more than any self-respecting man should in his lifetime, but the tears that had welled in his eyes were not from the force of Maximus’s thrusting.

No, like always, Maximus had been infuriatingly _fair_ , he had been _measured_ , he had given Commodus space to collect himself when he’d nearly lost it all on one particularly overzealous twist of his head. He had given Commodus time out of good faith, he had prioritized the wellbeing of his co-ruler more than his own orgasm- and Commodus **could not stand it**. Commodus had shut his eyes with a fury, yanking his head back before going back to work, as if to resoundly tell Maximus that he was not fragile.

He had wanted to be proven wrong. He had wanted to be stopped, to be held back from attacking Maximus’s cock with maniacal vigor, but he had just as much wanted to be forced forwards until he was gagging harder than he had yet. Commodus had wanted tenderness just as much as he had wanted domination, and his own contradictory manner threatened to drive him insane.

Somehow, Commodus had managed to calm himself into something of a rhythm, even if that had entailed moving slower than either of them probably would have liked. Even then, he had largely lost himself to fantasy until Maximus’s thighs tightening around his head ripped him fiercely back into the moment. Driven on by the encouragement, Commodus had gasped and choked a bit as he tried to wring his co-ruler out to completion, but he had in the end needed to concede; again, fantasy lapped at the shores of his mind like a dark and ebbing sea, and Commodus had found himself wondering just what it might have taken for Maximus to hold his head there and _force_ him to swallow it all.

“No more.”

Somehow, despite everything- despite the sheer _absurdity_ of the scene that had been playing out before them- Commodus’s heart had still managed to swell at that. A hard no. A firm command. It was enough to nearly make him smile, had he not been retching semen onto the floor. His own words had echoed in his mind- _fear is a tool, to be wielded skillfully_ \- but it was not fear that filled the pit in his chest.

It was fear that kept him putting up appearances, fear that kept him from just doubling over and admitting that this was out of his league; it was fear that kept him acting the part of a lecher, a whore. It was fear that led him to pull away from Maximus’s extended hand, but it was **_love_ ** that kept him from shying entirely away from the touch. Maximus’s broad, rough hand stroked through Commodus’s hair, but he had either been too exhausted or too uncaring- not both, no, Commodus was somehow sure of that- to react to Commodus’s smirk in response.

“We are young, brother, and yet your stamina seems negligible. _Laughable_ , I should say.”

Maximus had fallen back onto the bed with an unceremonious thud, and the warmth in Commodus’s chest had taken that as a sign that, truly, the man was simply too tired to respond anymore. If he had been truly uncaring, Commodus reasoned, then they would never have gotten this far to begin with- even with the threat hanging over Maximus’s head. It had been his choice, ultimately, his decision to say no or to urge Commodus on, and it had been his decision as well in how he chose to do so. It may not have been a glorious fanfare of _‘oh, Commodus, ravage me!’_ , but Commodus had never wanted that. What he wanted may have been somewhat unclear- to himself and Maximus both- until only just a few moments prior, but he had at least been sure that he’d never wanted Maximus like _that_.

“While you have been watching your games, I have been leading your legions, fighting your battles, solving your disputes. When you have worked as hard as I have, then you may complain about my stamina.”

Commodus had reclined only playfully next to Maximus, or so he had told himself. Shallowly.

“So they are indeed my legions, then? Those are your words.”

Just as playfully, but never just as shallowly, Maximus had swatted at Commodus’s head. He had known- perhaps they had both known, really- that the act would have never been permissible in any other circumstance, in any other possible setting than in this. Commodus had hesitated at first, but he had come to find pride in it.

From then, Maximus had not stirred. Sleep had begun to claim him faster than he could react, and Commodus had remained careful so as not to overstep far enough and force Maximus’s response. He had been playful, frisky even, but not anything more than that and not anything less; surely, to both he and the beyond-exhausted Maximus, he had not seemed to be playing the role of usurper. Commodus curling on Maximus’s chest as tenderly as a woman had been, and would remain, hyperbole- he was still the ‘man’, whether he liked it or not.

The majority of their encounter had played out within their own minds, narrated by inner guilt or lust or things which they could not so easily put a name to, but there was one thing that bridged the gap. For, even though Maximus had not stirred thereafter, Commodus had raised himself up on his elbows only once he was sure that the former was sleeping, and he had whispered into his ear with a voice shaken by tears,

“You will have me. You will have me, but I will not concede myself to you like a desperate whore.”

Commodus had hesitated, as if testing his own surety, before Maximus felt the unmistakable press of soft, petal-like lips against the bridge of his own nose.

“You will take me, Maximus. Even if you do not know it yet.”

**Author's Note:**

> I HIGHLY recommend reading the attached story by astolat before this one, as it functions as a sequel to astolat's (stunning) fanfic. However, this fic does also stand by itself.
> 
> (Note- they _are not brothers_ here, it's a term of endearment.)


End file.
